


The Halfway Space Between Her Knee and Her Unraveling

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, xfwcprompt: favorite things, xfwritingchallenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:32:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5251826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the background, the fair maiden screams and the lizard monster lunges, but they barely notice, for in the space between her legs, there is only black leather, trailing fingertips, and a humidity that’s drawing him closer and closer to the answers of the universe.  </p>
<p>Written for the X Files Writing Challenge, Prompt: Favorite Things</p>
<p>Time Period: Post IWTB, Pre-Revival, with a healthy dose of original series flashback smut thrown in for good measure</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Halfway Space Between Her Knee and Her Unraveling

The black leather feels at once both incommodious and familiar. Awkward, yet comforting. A too-small high school letter jacket that brings back memories of cold metal football bleachers and the warm wet slide of a first real tongue-kiss.

She sits stiffly on the edge, to avoid bearing her weight fully into the squish of the seat. Knowing that if she were to do so, she would be swallowed, swallowed wholly and consumed. 

It’s difficult to keep her balance though. For she can feel the dip below her buttocks, feel the hollow space attempting to form to her body, attempting to suck her in. Like so many times from the past.

She’s actually a bit surprised to see how well it’s held up, after so many years lurking in her mother’s dusty basement. He’d told her he was retrieving it, but she’d feigned an appointment to avoid the look in his eyes. 

It feels wrong here, out-of-place. The windows are on the opposite side, warming the leather from different angles. The television is a flat screen now, reflecting new and strange throw pillows she’s never seen. 

She wonders how many other things are here that she’s never seen.

Her hands grip at the edges of the cushion, to help hold her balance, but that’s just as bad. The cool slide between her fingers reminds her just as completely, just as vividly. She’s sitting in the exact spot, she realizes. Clenching the exact same patches of leather. And she can’t stop the shudder that quickly dips through her body at the thought. 

She doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want to invite that girl back in. That girl who knew him, who loved him, who ached so exquisitely for him. She can’t be that girl again. She can’t. 

Because he’s not same boy anymore. 

Somewhere along the way, she lost that boy. And though she’d give anything, absolutely anything, to have him back, she’s sure it’s too late. People don’t get things back once they’ve lost them; she’s learned that lesson the hard way.

She takes a deep breath, attempting to clear her head, but as the air pulls through her lungs, it brings with it the scent of his skin. That heady, earthy scent that thoroughly intoxicated her for so many years. And if she’s being honest, still affects her to this day. 

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, she repeats again and again inside her head. 

But despite her attempts to forget, she feels herself wafting, dissolving through time and space until she feels the same warm leather beneath her once again. And this time, she’s got no reason to be stiff and balanced. Uncomfortable or unnerved. 

 

….

 

This time, she’s soft and limpid and relaxed. And woozy with lust for that lost boy who sits beside her. 

Not that he knows it. She’s become a master at hiding what he does to her, how he affects her. But just the fact that she’s sitting beside him, on a Friday evening, drinking beers and watching monster movies… just those things tell him something. And that something means everything to him.

He’s nudged himself nearer to her through the course of the evening, invaded her space until their thighs and shoulders nestle together. Certainly too close together for her guardian angel to slide between, she thinks, remembering the nuns and their reprimands at high school dances. She’s glad she decided to slip off her stockings in his bathroom when she’d arrived after work, because it means she can feel the heat of him against her leg where her skirt’s ridden slightly up.

Spending time with him is nothing new. They’ve worked alongside one another for seven long years. But this casual togetherness, this “could almost be called a date” intimacy, is new enough that it still flutters her heart a bit when she thinks about it. 

He kissed her not long ago, standing beneath the shiny New Year’s ball as it dropped, and since then, life has felt different. Touches feel like possibilities, glances like opportunities, and whispers like invitations. She’s still not sure what to make of it, only that she likes the prickle she feels on her lips when allowing herself to relive it.

But right now, she’s not thinking about that kiss at all. Right now, she’s too focused on his hand, which is suddenly casually resting against her bare thigh, right below the hem of her skirt. He landed it there a moment ago, after pointing out an inaccuracy in the movie (statistically-speaking, a reptile of that type should have four toes, not five), and now it lies just as equally across her leg as across his.

She thinks he must have heard her gasp at the contact, but keeps her eyes on the screen while she recovers. She reminds him of a certain species of iguana that does indeed have five digits, as she remains acutely aware of the barely-there pressure of his own five digits against her skin. 

As calm, cool, and collected as she hopes she appears, she struggles to maintain her breathing and not let him see the flush that has immediately spread throughout her body.

And why? He’s touched her countless times through the years. Why is this time any different? Why should this time set her heart racing and skin tingling? But it does, as nearly everything about him almost always does.

Minutes pass, and she has finally relaxed her body enough to pretend she doesn’t feel him anymore, when he suddenly shifts, and his hand slides further, his palm coming to rest fully against her leg, fingers splayed across her bared knee.

This time, she knows he can’t have missed the sudden suck of her breath, as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and closes her eyes at the sensation. Any question in her mind that the touch had been unintentional is definitely gone. Jesus, his hand is literally melting against her.

She thinks about other times his hand has touched her. Cradling her cheek, sweeping through her hair, lying across her hip, but never, never has it felt like this, so promising, so possessing.

But, par for the course, neither acknowledges a thing. And though both can feel the momentousness of the situation, the ascension into something potentially earth-shattering, it’s easier to ignore it, to pretend that nothing’s changed.

It’s easier to just keep watching the movie.

And so they do. And when his muscles contract to lightly squeeze her skin, she masks her shiver by critiquing the movie’s terrible special effects. And when his fingers begin to move, to trace intricate designs across her knee, he hides his strident breaths by laughing at the absurd dialogue.

But as his wandering fingers begin to slide further, to push the edge of her skirt slightly higher, then…

Then she realizes she is beyond the ability of camouflaging her reactions. A faint squeak escapes her throat, and she allows her eyelids to close so that she can breathe, so that she doesn’t drown in the depth of his touch. 

Because it’s her only option. Because there’s no way she can do anything but feel.

And once they’ve stepped through that door, he’s beyond pretending as well. Because he’s barely in control as it is. The gossamer thread of her skin against his fingertips is breaking him as he realizes that it is so very much softer than he’d ever imagined. He’s not sure where he’s gathered the courage to push this far, he only knows that he never, never wants to go back.

In the background, the fair maiden screams and the lizard monster lunges, but they barely notice, for in the space between her legs, there is only black leather, trailing fingertips, and a humidity that’s drawing him closer and closer to the answers of the universe. 

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and he can’t restrain the moan that slips from his throat. She tries not to react, but God, she can’t help it. As much as she attempts to remain still, her pelvis tilts forward at the sound. 

And he can hardly stand it, the knowledge that he’s being allowed this gift, that she is actually welcoming it. He would sell his soul if he could just stay here forever, in this halfway space between her knee and her unraveling. 

But he soon realizes that halfway isn’t nearly enough, because as he drifts further, she absolutely blossoms. Her neck tilts to reveal her creamy throat, her lips part to release hot, gasping breaths, and her legs spread to invite him even further.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and she can’t control the whimper that escapes in response. Oh God, could this really be happening? 

She hasn’t opened her eyes since his hand began teasing at her knee, but her other four senses are more than making up for her absence of sight. Hearing, smell, taste, and most especially touch- all are thoroughly, completely immersed in him. He is surrounding her, everywhere at once, and she is drunk on his elixir.

She doesn’t think she has ever been this aroused, this ready for a man’s touch. 

As her skirt bunches further, her heart beats wildly beneath her breast. His hand is moving at such a deliberately slow pace, she doesn’t know how much longer she can bear it. There have been so many years of tension between them, her arousal is so far beyond its peak, it’s absurd. She bites the corner of her lip and grips the leather of the couch in anticipation.

Almost there, almost there, he can’t help but chant deliriously in his head, as his fingers begin to encounter the slick evidence of her arousal slurred against the inner skin of her thigh. He doesn’t think he has ever thirsted as voraciously as he does for this woman.

Then suddenly, he is at the edge of her panties, and as he presses his fingers against her sex and slides them down, her high-pitched gasp and his deep groan collide and combine to fill the space above them. And the sound drizzles back down through the air, drenching them even further in desire.

She arches fiercely against his hand, her only thought “more, more, more”, and he slips his fingers beneath the silk to oblige. And oh my God, the wet sound of his finger pressing deep inside her is almost enough to push them both over the edge.

It is exquisite, the way she whimpers his name, the way she rolls her pelvis against his hand, the way he urges her on, “God, Scully, I adore you…”. How could their walls have dissolved any more perfectly than this?

And as she rises to the pinnacle, she faintly hears the credits of the movie rolling in the distance. She grips tightly at his arm and whispers his name. He feels flames on his fingertips as she explodes against him like fireworks. 

And when her gasping breaths have calmed, she hears his voice.

 

….

 

She opens her eyes to the unfamiliar room, and he murmurs, “I still think about it, too, Scully…,” 

And as he gently touches her shoulder, she turns away, barely able to hold back the tears.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd told me I'd be writing revival fic six months ago, I'd have laughed. But alas, here it is. At least I got to go back to the "good old days" and play with these two for a bit!


End file.
